


Bruised Knuckles

by kobigayy



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eddie Diaz Needs a Hug (9-1-1 TV), Gen, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Punching things, eddies past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:34:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kobigayy/pseuds/kobigayy
Summary: most of his life, eddie’s knuckles have been bruised.
Relationships: Christopher Diaz & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Bruised Knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work for this fandom, constructive criticism always welcome.   
> there might be a part two, idk yet. also endings are not my thing. enjoyyy.

most of his life, eddie’s knuckles have been bruised. punching things was such an easy way to get out the anger, the frustration, the pain he was feeling, and the cuts left on his knuckles didn’t hurt either. well, they did, and that was what he liked. he could pick at the scabs and make them bleed all over again, press on the bruises until he hissed in pain and it just felt calming. grounding. 

—————————-

he had been ten the first time. it had been a bad day at school, he’d been picked on again by the bigger kids that refused to leave him alone, and he’d failed his maths test. he didn’t care too much about that, but his dad would. his dad did. when he’d seen the test paper crumpled in the bottom of eddie’s school bag where he tried to hide it from sight, he’d yelled and ranted for hours about how this just wasn’t good enough. you’ll never get anywhere with grades like this. and you weren’t going to tell me? look at me, boy. 

when the man had finally stopped, and looked down at ten year old eddie, whose shaking hands were dug deep into his pockets and eyes focused solely on the dirty carpet, with such contempt in his expression, he told him to go to his room, revise for tomorrow’s science test, and god forbid if you get a bad grade. 

eddie hadn’t needed telling twice. he turned, darted up the stairs and pushed his door shut quietly behind him. at first, he did get out a book, stared down at the pages until the words danced across it but none of it made sense. he couldn’t concentrate, not while this energy, this anger was racing through his small body, making his hands shake as he clenched them into fists, and his knee jerk violently up and down and he couldn’t make it stop, and tears gather in the corners of his eyes. he slammed the book shut and shoved his chair back so suddenly it almost tipped, and then he stood, punching the wall beside his desk with all the strength he could muster. he felt slightly better after, and then his hand began to sting and one of those tears fell from his eye. at ten, he hadn’t been strong enough to make even the slightest dent on the wall, but his knuckles were a different story. they were red, a small cut on one, though it wasn’t bleeding much. 

the words stopped moving after that, and he got a fairly good grade on the science test. no one ever asked about his knuckles. 

——————————-

after that, punching walls became a fairly permanent fixture in eddie’s life, and he didn’t care that much. it meant his knuckles were almost always bruised, small cuts lining each one, but he found that just made him appear more threatening, and the other kids picked on him less. his older sister tried talking to him once, but she gave up fairly quickly and other than that, no one seemed to care. 

however, it wasn’t until he was almost thirteen that he punched something that wasn’t a wall. 

he’d been walking down the school corridors silently, and he didn’t have many friends so he was alone. one hand was dug into his pocket and the other was fiddling with a random paperclip he’d stolen from his teachers desk. as he turned the corner, he’d almost walked into oliver, one of the older, more feared kids in the school, and the one person he’d been trying to avoid, especially since the argument they’d had the previous week over nothing in particular. 

if it hadn’t been for his quick reflexes, and the fact he’d expected it, he would have gotten punched in the face immediately but he ducked, avoiding that hit. oliver, not having expected eddie to move, stumbled forward slightly, and eddie kicked the other boy’s knee, forcing him to lose his balance. however, he recovered quickly, and threw a fist at eddie’s face, one he wasn’t able to dodge. pain instantly bloomed over eddie’s eye, but he ignored it in favour of returning the hit, leaving oliver with what would become a matching black eye. a few more punches were thrown, leaving eddie and oliver with a cut lip and an aching jaw respectively, before the boys were pulled off each other by teachers. 

that day left him with knuckles that were slightly more beaten than usual, along with a black eye, a split lip and another hour long reprimand from his father. he decided he quite like fighting. 

—————————-

over the years, he racked up a few more fights - and a fair amount of wins - but he started punching walls less as he got older. when he was fifteen, he’d managed to leave a noticeable dent in the tough wall of his room after a particularly bad night, and his father had been so angry he forced himself to do it less. he found he missed the cut up knuckles though. he missed being able to press down on the bruises, feel just enough pain to get him through the day, just enough to quieten his mind so he could focus. he’d found other ways, like running until his feet were blistered raw, or working out until his muscles screamed at him to stop. they weren’t as effective, but he made do, and he wasn’t opposed to the muscular look he was obtaining either. and then, when he was seventeen, he’d found alcohol, and that seemed to do a fair job of dulling the pain for a few hours if nothing else was working. 

—————————-

eddie was eighteen now, in a steady relationship with shannon, and his knuckles hadn’t been bruised in a while. he was weirdly proud of himself for that, even though it wasn’t an achievement. he’s actually happy with the way things are, and deciding between college and the army when the ground beneath him shakes and suddenly there doesn’t seem to be anywhere stable enough to stand anymore. shannon’s pregnant. and he is so not ready for that. he pretends to be, and then they’re married and they’re having a baby, and eddie is terrified so he runs. he runs all the way to afghanistan and he hates himself for it, hates the way his knuckles clench with the distinct need to punch something, someone and he hates how he seems to have no control in what’s happening in his life anymore. 

he finds the pain he silently craves differently, in adrenaline and gunshots and explosions. in wrapping up pieces of men he knew, he served with, as they lay injured in his medic tent, in promising them they’ll see their family again even though the words tear at his throat, corrode his lungs like sandpaper because he knows that most of the time, that isn’t a promise that will be kept. instead of pressing down on bruised knuckles, eddie finds his pain in zipping up body bags and handing over yet another pair of dog tags belonging to the man in the bag at his feet. and it’s almost enough. almost. 

———————————-

he’s fairly close to the end of his tour when shannon’s due date is closing in like crushing walls, and he finds himself on a plane, dressed in his army fatigues, his leg shaking violently with the force of the nerves he just can’t control. he clenched his fist and stared down at the whitening knuckles, no bruises, no cuts, and he’s almost annoyed by the fact that familiar comfort just isn’t there. 

he managed to get by with only a few people thanking him for his service, and soon he’s in a cab on the way to his home, where shannon is, when his phone goes off and suddenly he’s asking the cab driver to go to the hospital instead because she’s already in labour and the baby is coming. he feels his breathing quicken and his hand tingles with the need to hit something, he’s not even angry he just needs something to ground him, so he goes for the next best thing he can think of, and digs his nails into the underside of his wrist. he presses as hard as he can, and it isn’t much but it stings and it’s just enough to allow his lungs to expand and suddenly he can breathe again. he stares down at the tiny crevice shaped idents on his wrist, and decided to remember that one. 

sooner than he’d have liked, the cab stopped outside the hospital and he paid the driver and got out, staring up at the intimidating building that seemed to loom over him for a few seconds before he gathered himself enough to enter. eddie gave the woman at reception shannon’s name, and he was directed to a room up on the maternity ward. it took him a few minutes to navigate the hospital, but he got there, and he was standing outside shannon’s room and digging his nails into his wrist again because he just needed something to get through this, and then he plastered a smile on his face and rushed to his wife’s side as if he hadn’t stopped running to get to her since he got the call. 

there were a couple of complications with the birth, and eddie was even more terrified, but the baby cried loudly and eddie cut the umbilical cord with a little hesitation. as he stared down at his sons little face, the tiny tufts of hair on his head, for a few moments he couldn’t remember why he’d ever been scared, why he’d ever run, and suddenly he didn’t want to have to go back and finish his tour. christopher. the name felt sweet on eddie’s lips and he smiled. it was perfect. 

shannon gave him a small black box, and he opened it to find a st. christopher’s medallion, to protect him she said. he swore then that he’d always fight to come home to them, and he knew, that past the fear and the pain and the insecurity, he meant that. 

——————————

eddie’s tour was so nearly done when his world came crashing down all over again, and he wondered for a moment exactly what he’d done in his past lives to deserve this, to curse his innocent baby with this. after all, it had to be his fault, shannon and chris were innocent, he was a mess. cerebral palsy, shannon had sobbed down the phone one evening as he sat in the tent, a familiar pressure building behind his own eyes. under the table, out of shannon’s view, his nails were digging so deeply into his wrist he was surprised - though thankful - that it didn’t draw blood, and when the call cut off he wanted to punch something so badly that if there had been any solid walls nearby his knuckles wouldn’t have been bruised, they’d have been broken. 

he signed himself up for another tour. eddie told himself it was to pay the bills, it was to support chris and shannon, he was being responsible, but somewhere not too deeply buried, he knew that was only a small fraction of why. he was angry, that also played a part, as did guilt. but mainly, he was terrified all over again. mere months ago, when he’d held his baby son in his arms, that fear had been almost undetectable in his system, not gone entirely, but not controlling him anymore. the weight chris now held in his heart had loosened the grip it had on him, but now that very same love was tightening the fist around his lungs, snatching away his oxygen, choking him and threatening to pull him under. 

at least he got to run away under the guise of a noble cause, fighting a war for his country, providing a life for his family. 

———————————

when eddie returned from his second tour, he was labelled a hero, with a medal on his chest and horrors hidden in his mind. his family were proud of him, and he appreciated it, he did, but he just wished people would stop asking about the silver star because every time they did his hand would curl into a fist and greggs’ face would appear in his mind. his throat would dry and the words would stick there, suffocating him. 

he hadn’t been home long, the three bullet wounds across his body still hurting when shannon suggested moving to california. he’d objected, he’d only just gotten here, and he was too damn exhausted for this conversation, but she kept asking, and asking and soon it was an ever present argument, lingering like a ghost in vacant hallways. 

his parents had insisted on framing his medal, and shannon had hung it pride of place on their bedroom wall, and at the time he’d forced a smile and agreed despite the bile that rose in his throat everytime he looked at it; he’d just been too tired to fight. 

but when, for another night in an unending streak, he sat bolt upright in the middle of the night, sweating with tears on his face and greggs’ blood on his hands, he was done. quietly as possible, he stumbled over to the closet and began rooting through it for the box the medal went in. he didn’t notice when shannon sat up in the bed, watching him silently in the dim light from the hallway, not until he finally found the box and turned to walk across the room to the frame with the medal in. he didn’t care too much when he did notice. eddie pulled the frame off the wall and turned it over, partly so he didn’t have to look at the medal but also so he could open the back of the frame, but his hands were shaking from the nightmare and he just wasn’t coordinated enough to get it open. furious by now, his breathing hastened to a point of hyperventilation, he flipped the frame back over and shoved his fist through the glass front, effectively shattering it, and slicing his hand it the process. he couldn’t tell his blood from greggs’ anymore. he picked the medal out and laid it perfectly in the box before snapping it shut and burying it deep in the back of his closet, along with his army uniform that was covered in a bin bag so he didn’t have to look at the damn thing. 

eddie slumped back down onto the bed, his breathing still too quick to be healthy and the cuts on his hand leaking blood but he didn’t care. he hardly felt it when shannon’s hand rubbed soothingly across his shoulders, and he ignored the silent tears that fell from his eyes as he sat with his back to her. if he had been facing her, he would have moved to wipe them away but she couldn’t see so he didn’t care. 

he laid back down, but his bleeding fists stayed clenched, his nails digging little crescent cuts on his palms and he didn’t sleep for the rest of that night. shannon never mentioned it to him, but the next time his parents were around the medal suddenly appeared back on the wall in a new frame. 

————————

two years passed, and shannon hadn’t been heard from in a long while, having left for california in the middle of the night, leaving behind only a note for him to find in the morning. his hand had curled into a tight fist when he read it, but his son had been right there so he’d refrained from hitting anything, though he had pierced one of the cuts from the glass frame a couple nights back with his nail, the stinging pain and the blood grounded him enough to smile at his son like nothing was wrong. 

by this point, eddie was always exhausted. he was working three jobs to keep him and christopher afloat, but it meant spending hardly any time with his son, leaving the boy with his parents more often than not, and he hated himself for that. 

he had gotten home from one of his shifts, with only an hour or so to shower and grab something to eat before his next one, when his parents cornered him in the living room. they told him that he was working too much, working himself into the ground just to make ends meet and that it wasn’t doing any good for christopher. they told him that christopher needed stability, needed consistency, especially after his mother’s abrupt departure. eddie knew that, he did. he knew he wasn’t good enough for chris, he knew he couldn’t provide for them, he knew all of that. but when his parents suggested that christopher live with them full time he was angry. he was trying, he’d applied to a proper job, with the fire department, and he wasn’t going to let them steal his son. he tried to convince them that he was what christopher needed, that him leaving like the boy’s mother wouldn’t do him any good, and when they’d refused to listen to him, he stormed outside. they weren’t taking his son away from him.

standing on the front porch, eddie felt tears building in his eyes but he fought not to let them fall. he dug his fingernails into his wrist again and did his best to compress the urge to punch the door when he noticed chris sat on the step. he released the pressure he had on his wrist and took a seat next to his son. when christopher admitted how much he had missed eddie while he was in afghanistan, he made his decision and wrapped his arms tightly around the boy, holding him close, and he found it was a pretty good distraction from the pain he was craving so much at that moment. 

——————————-

eddie was sat in the fire engine, staring down at the phone in his hand, his leg shaking slightly as he waited for signal. he sent another message, but this one, like the other twelve, didn’t go through, and he groaned. buck, another firefighter in his new house glanced over, asked who he was trying to get ahold of. eddie contemplated his answer for a moment, having already made the decision not to get too close to his new house, to stay private - he wasn’t convinced he could handle losing anyone else. however, he figured, they’re going to find out he has a kid at some point, it’s impossible for them not to. he showed buck a picture of christopher, a smile gracing his own features, even in his current state, as he looked down at the wide, ever present grin on his sons face. buck grinned too, and eddie tried not to notice how similar he was to chris, the childlike innocence in this man undeniable. he loves this kid, he admits, worry clawing at his throat all over again, that fist tightening around his lungs and he battled the urge to push his nails into his, by this point, scarred wrist and swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. 

buck spends the rest of the day casually reassuring eddie that christopher would be just fine, and while eddie wasn’t convinced, he appreciated it, and found his resolve not to become friends with this man falter slightly. buck is the one to tell him immediately when there’s finally signal, and he feels the fist around his heart loosen microscopically when he hears that chris is okay, he’s safe, and they’ll look after him until eddie can get off work. he knows, though, that it won’t let go of its hold until chris is in his arms, and that the need to punch something, just to ground him, quiet the fears in his mind, will also remain until he’s holding christopher. so he curls his fist tighter, and works on saving who he can. 

that evening, buck drives eddie to christopher’s school. he’s grateful, because he’s too wired, too worried to be able to drive right now anyways, and his leg still hasn’t stopped shaking no matter how hard he tries. he’s out of the car, slamming the door before buck has even parked, and running up the stairs to where chris is at the end of the hallway with a teacher. he drops into a crouch, scooping the boy into his arms, feeling his lungs finally fill with enough oxygen again, hearing the sound of his child’s laugh louder than the voices telling him that christopher is dead, and his mind is silent for the first time all day. his fists uncurl.


End file.
